


On Poetry

by thecarlysutra



Category: Tombstone (1993)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Doc is not given to sentimentality.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: For staringiscaring, as per her request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staringiscaring](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=staringiscaring).



  
Doc is not given to sentimentality. He finds he rolls his eyes—or worse, laughs—when men wax poetic about women. A woman is a fine thing, on this Doc agrees, but he cannot think of a single situation in which frilly words could better describe his appreciation for the finer things in life than his willing body, his sly mouth, and his quick hands. Poetry is valuable, certainly, but not more valuable than a soft, sweet girl in your arms. And poetry will not pay for one, either. Luckily, Doc is gifted with words _and_ at the poker table.

Fidelity, too, is a fine thing, given the correct context. Any occasion that calls for a gun in your hand is an occasion for fidelity. Any occasion that calls for blood spilt is an occasion for fidelity. The word is from the Latin _fidēlitās_ , from _fidēs_ —faith—which makes fidelity a religious matter. Doc does not mind God on the battlefield, but he will not abide him in the bedroom.

Doc has no desire to keep track of Kate. He is not a nursemaid, and she is a capable young woman with her own interests and appetites. If she wants him, she’ll come for him. Until then, he is on his own. More correctly: for the time being he is on his own.

Tombstone is just a mining camp, and Arizona might as well be the goddamn Indian Territories for as much civilization’s out here, and Doc is surprised—a thing that happens rarely—to see the fresh beauty of the girl here. She is true blonde, skin pale, soft, and fragrant as a magnolia; svelte and lovely. Her eyes are the clear blue of spring waters and her light hair moves around her graceful neck and shoulders in a constant tease, little flashes of skin visible behind the curtain. She cannot be twenty. Doc is several hours into the Bird Cage’s unending poker game, and he cannot look hale, but he has good hands and a confidence that women admire, and the girl comes down from the cribs and smiles at him. She is for sale, but Doc has never cared about a thing less. He lets the girl catch his eye, and then he winks, and takes Diamond Jim Brady for enough silver to keep her all night.

The girl’s hands are soft, and they are tiny folding around Doc’s. He lets her lead him up the narrow stairway tucked behind the bar. There’s a path worn all down the middle of the stairs, except for the first two; men, in their eagerness, hop right over them. Doc is eager, but he is also measured, and he takes the stairs slowly, watching the girl’s fine figure before him, her skirt moving over her hips as she climbs up.

Doc looks for a moment out over the main hall below before the girl closes the curtain. He can smell the carbon from her lighting the lamps, and he is glad; the curtains darken the crib, and he wants to see her.

“Enjoying the view?” she asks.

Her hands slip around his thin waist, and she presses herself against his back. Every day Doc feels the fever burn at him more fiercely, the flames of hell getting anxious for when the last breath can’t find purchase in his diseased lungs, and he comes home. But he can feel the girl’s heat, her body against his, her sweet breath on the back of his neck.

“Yes, darlin’. I intend to.”

He moves within her embrace, turns to face her without breaking the circle of her arms around him. She is as light and soft in his arms as a little dove, and Doc still has strength and poise enough to get her onto the bed without ruffling a feather. She sinks back into the plush of the mattress as he undresses her. He has the fastest hands here or anywhere, and he could have her stripped in seconds, but there is a time to linger, and that time is now. Doc goes slow, and when she is finally bare for him to see, her lovely magnolia skin stretched before him, waiting for him, he has a brief, ticklish desire for poetry. Then his mouth curls—he laughs at his own foolishness—and he puts his hands on her, and he feels more like himself.  



End file.
